


weights on my ankles

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15.03 coda, ALL THE ANGST, Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sad with a Happy Ending, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-13 17:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21181697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Castiel drives for eight hours, until the truck runs out of gas.





	weights on my ankles

**Author's Note:**

> Because i can't be stopped, another fic inspired by 15.03.  
I'll keep writing until I stop being sad.  
Beware: here there be spoilers.

_You will find that it necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.--C Joybell C_

Castiel drives for eight hours before the truck runs out of gas. He leaves its carcass abandoned on the side of a dusty highway and starts walking towards the dim horizon. At his back, the sun struggles to break free of the clinging fog of night, but Castiel keeps his eyes on the darkness ahead of him. 

After two hours of walking, his body starts to feel the beginnings of fatigue. His feet throb, his head spins, and his muscles scream in protest with every step he takes. Still, he keeps walking. He can’t stop. If he stops, then he’ll think, then he’ll feel the loss of the past days crash down like the weight of centuries on his shoulders--

Castiel keeps walking. 

The sun beats down on the back of his neck. A trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck and underneath his shirt collar. His coat is stifling. Castiel tugs at the collar, trying to readjust it before he stops. 

_Why does it seem like that thing’s always you?_

Dean’s words are a still seeping wound, one that he won’t recover from. 

With thoughtless motions, Castiel shrugs out of his coat. He leaves it on the side of the road, a crumpled mess. Let someone else find it. Let the small animals, the hares and possums, the deer and foxes, use it for shelter, for warmth. 

Castiel keeps walking.  
\---

He comes to a small town on the Montana state line. He finds a motel which says Vacancy on the outside and walks into the office. His white shirt has turned a light brown from the dust and sweat. His shoes are covered in a fine patina of dirt. He still has a split lip. 

The cashier barely glances up at him. He asks her for one room. When asked how long his stay will be, he thinks. “One week,” he finally decides. After a moment’s thought, she rattles off a number. Castiel fishes into his wallet and hands her a wad of bills without counting. He takes the proffered key and walks away. 

Underneath the shower spray, Castiel finally allows himself to stop. 

He’d thought that Dean would stop him. 

He plays it out in his mind, there in the shower--Dean running after him, a hand on his shoulder, tugging him around. Dean’s eyes, snapping fierce on his. Dean, demanding an explanation, Dean demanding that he _stay_. 

Castiel doesn’t know if he would have, but it would have been nice to have been offered the choice. 

Instead, Dean had watched him go, wordless, soundless, careless. Beautiful. Cruel. Human. Castiel had dashed himself to pieces on the jagged edges of Dean Winchester until finally, there were no more pieces to pick up. 

Heat prickles behind his eyes. Water, not from the shower, falls down his face. 

Angels don’t cry. 

\---

He sleeps that night. 

He hadn’t been lying when he said his powers were failing. He can still feel his grace, but it’s weak and erratic. He doesn’t have enough to heal the split in his lip and so he keeps tonguing it as he drifts off, just so he can feel the bright pulse of pain. 

He dreams, when he sleeps. He dreams of happier times, of meals spent in the bunker, of Jack’s laughter echoing from the walls. He dreams of the times after hunts when Dean would turn to him, the hope in his eyes hidden almost but not quite and say _You wanna come and have a beer real quick?_ And Castiel, to keep up appearances, would pretend to think and consider, and say _I suppose that I can_, and then Dean would smile, bright and sunny. 

He dreams of his hand against Jack’s forehead, of pouring his grace into that body until it shriveled into nothingness before his eyes. Of his boy’s voice, tiny and afraid, saying _Cas please_, of Jack in the graveyard, _I want to love you but I can’t_, of Dean biting out _You’re dead to me_, of the charred skeleton he left in Hell. 

Castiel wakes, shivering, shaking. He doesn’t recognize the feeling in his stomach until bile pours out of his mouth, hot and sour. It dribbles down his chin and onto the blankets. The stench surrounds him and the taste fills his mouth. He swallows to try and chase it away, but it remains, vile and so very, very mortal. 

He brings a shaking hand to his forehead to try and wipe away the clammy sweat gathered there, then he remembers how his hand looked splayed out over Jack’s head and he retches again. 

\---

It takes Sam three days to call. 

In that time Castiel found a small shopping center where he used the last of his cash to purchase new clothes. Gone are the last vestiges of Jimmy’s suit. In its place he has several pairs of jeans, sensible boots, and a few sensible shirts. In the store, he’d seen several plaid shirts and he’d gravitated towards them, out of a need for the familiar. His fingers had brushed the sleeve of one--soft, warm. The feel of Dean’s arm against the back of his neck. 

Castiel jerked away like he’d been burned. 

His phone rings, shrill in his pocket. Castiel pulls it out and answers, already knowing who is on the other end. 

“Cas.” There’s relief in Sam’s voice, but it’s only a shred. The rest is carefully blank. Any nuance is lost over miles of phone lines. “For a second I thought you weren’t going to answer.” 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He listens for a few moments to the quiet sounds of Sam breathing. There’s a hollowness on the other end of the line which tells him that Sam is in the bunker. He wonders where Dean is--in his room? At the shooting range? At a bar? A surge of hot _something_ curls through Castiel’s stomach, and he dismisses it. 

Finally realizing that Castiel has no intention of speaking, Sam sighs. “Look, I guess you know why I’m calling.” Again, he pauses, inviting Castiel into the conversation. Again, Castiel remains silent. He’d meant it when he’d said that there wasn’t anything else to say. 

“Cas,” Sam says again, this time quieter. Honest. “Look, I know that you said that you were leaving but...” 

“Are you asking me to come back?” Castiel finally asks. He doesn’t know whether or not he’s angry at Sam. While Sam exhibited none of Dean’s petty cruelties, he certainly didn’t restrain his brother. 

“I don’t...Are you ok?” There’s something bleak and hopeless in Sam’s voice. He lost Rowena. Castiel understands. 

“I’m fine.” Castiel looks out over the small park. Children play in the grass while adults jog around the path. Several geese root through the grass. It’s all so beautiful. 

“I just...I’m sorry, all right? I know that Dean and you...I know what he said, he told me--” 

“That all your problems have been my fault?” 

Castiel can’t help the snap in his voice, mostly because in some part, it’s true. If he hadn’t opened Purgatory, if he hadn’t released the Leviathan...how many tragedies could have been averted? If he’d managed to see through Metatron’s lies, how many of his brothers and sisters would still be alive? If he hadn’t said yes to Lucifer, how many lives might have been spared? 

“Cas, you know...” Sam sighs. The sound is defeated. “You know he didn’t mean that, right?”

Yes he did. Castiel might not have the full force of his grace, but he has enough, enough to see the surface of Dean’s soul. He meant every word. 

“What’s done is done,” Castiel says instead. Whatever faith Sam has left in his brother, Castiel doesn’t want to destroy it. “The apocalypse is over. You and Dean have no more need of me.” 

A small, frustrated noise winds its way through the phone. “Cas, you know that we...It’s not about what we need.” 

_Isn’t it though_, Cas wants to ask. Isn’t it about what he can do for the Winchesters, how he can help them? The few times that he’s asked for their help, they came begrudgingly or not at all. _Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters_. 

Castiel has bled. Castiel has died. And even that wasn’t enough. 

“Sam. You know that I value our time together.” Castiel doesn’t say friendship. There’s too much hurt on his side and too little emotion on Sam’s side for that word to come through. Though Sam never said anything, Castiel senses--Sam blames him as well. He might be better at hiding it than Dean, but deep down, deep enough that maybe Sam doesn’t even know it’s there...he blames Castiel. For Mary, maybe. For Rowena, certainly. 

“But it’s time for me to...” Castiel trails off. He doesn’t know what it is exactly, that he wants to do. All he knows is that whatever it is, it can’t happen with Sam and Dean. 

“You know that if you ever need anything, you just have to call right?” 

“Of course,” Castiel murmurs. 

“Right.” Sam’s voice sounds dissatisfied, but he doesn’t try to stop Castiel, doesn’t beg him to come back. “Ok. Um...Good luck. I guess.” 

“Goodbye Sam,” Castiel says. 

After hanging up the phone, he stares at the small piece of plastic and metal in his hands. He thumbs through his contact list. The list of names is pitifully small. Worse when he considers how few of those he can actually call. 

Rowena is dead. Ketch is dead. Jack is...Jack is...Sam is better off without him. And Dean. 

With one movement, Castiel breaks the phone in half. Tiny glass shards embed themselves in the pad of his thumb, but he ignores the pain as he tosses the two halves in the trash can, before walking away from the park. 

\---

Castiel leaves the small Montana town. 

Before he goes, he cuts his credit cards and throws their remnants down the garbage disposal. He listens to the blades struggle with the hard plastic of the cards. It feels a little like being reborn. 

He steals a car. He doesn't bother with picking a lock or hotwiring. Instead, he brushes a tendril of grace over the lock and ignition, then listens as the car purrs to life. It's a nice trick, one that he probably won't be able to do forever--his grace is less a renewable resource than it is a shallow pool at this point--but for the moment, it will suffice. It's enough to get him out of Montana and on the road. 

When he finds his way to Rexford, Idaho, he's not surprised. 

The town hasn't changed much in the six years since he saw it last. The courthouse remains the same, as does the high school, and the paltry Main Street shops. He drives, already knowing his destination. 

The Gas 'N' Sip looks almost the same. Maybe a little more worn, maybe a little older. Several tufts of grass poke out from cracks in the asphalt in the parking lot. Castiel parks his purloined car before heading inside. 

He finds her behind the counter. She's turned away from the door, organizing inventory. At the sound of the bell, she doesn't turn around, but instead calls out, "Be with you in a second!" Castiel watches her work. The swift, sure motions of her hands, the bounce of her curly hair, now with a few hints of grey running through the dark strands. 

Nora turns around, a bright smile plastered on her face. The expression falters once her eyes land on his form. Then a small, disbelieving half-smile settles in its place. "Steve?" she asks, almost like she's expecting to be told that she's wrong. 

"Hello Nora," Castiel says. For the first time in weeks, he smiles. 

Nora's smile widens into something genuine. "Oh my god," she says, rushing out from around the counter. If she notices the tiny flinch at her words, she doesn't mention it. "I can't believe it's you!" Her arms wrap around Castiel's shoulder in a quick hug, and something in Castiel unclenches at the simple contact. "How've you been?"

To answer that would take years. Castiel settles for a shrug. Nora takes a step backwards, holding him at arm's length. "You look..." She falters for a moment, a pensive expression clouding her eyes. "You look different," she decides. 

She means older. Angels don't age, but Castiel has. His face is no longer the youthful face of Jimmy Novak. Something of his true nature has carved years onto the face, created the impression of age. Or perhaps that's just his experiences. 

"You look the same," Castiel says. He's not being kind, just truthful. Nora has the smooth, unlined face of someone who lives her life simply and cleanly. 

Nora blushes, her eyes darting away from his. When she looks back, only a hint of pink on her cheeks betrays her emotions. "So what brings you back after all these years? I have to tell you, after you disappeared on us, I was pretty sure that I was never going to see you again." 

"I'm sorry. I had...There were family problems that I had to deal with." 

"For six years?" Nora's eyebrow rises. 

"Yes." Castiel smiles, rueful. "The problems were...extensive." 

"Some family," Nora comments. 

"Indeed." 

"You get it all straightened away?"

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat. How to answer? _I had a family, but it shattered. I had a son and friends, but they withered away like dust on a prairie. For a few months, I had everything and then, like everything else in this life, it vanished_. 

_I had a home, but I walked away. I had a love, but he smothered everything good that was between us, until all that was left was bitterness and hatred._

"It's done," he finally says. Something in his expression must warn Nora, because she doesn't press for answers. 

"So what brings you back here?" she asks. 

Castiel's eyes land on the small sign posted on the door. It reads _Help Wanted_. 

"Would you believe, a job?" 

\---

It's easy to fall back into the rhythms of Rexford. Castiel wakes before the dawn and drives down to the store. He goes through the motions of opening--setting up the registers, starting the coffee, arranging the newspapers. He signs in trucks, sells lottery tickets, gives away cigarettes to humans who won't live out the decade. 

One thing is different from his first time--The first afternoon, Nora made him wait while she went into the office. She came out with crisp bills held in her hands. "It's an advance," she said, cutting off his protests. She pushed the bills into his hand and held on so that he couldn't pull away. "No sleeping in the back room." She held his gaze for a long moment before squeezing his hand and letting go. 

So every night, instead of sneaking into the back room and unrolling his sleeping bag, Castiel returns to his hotel room, with its fresh sheets and clean towels. He takes a shower and falls onto the bed. He sets the alarm on the cheap phone he picked up at the drugstore, before he falls asleep. 

He hadn't meant to choose this hotel, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. As he'd driven down the road, he'd recognized the sign and, drawn by the same instinct that brings moths to lights, that guides monarch butterflies thousands of miles towards home, he pulled into the lot. 

It had been here that Dean had taken him that night, so many years ago. He'd gotten a room while Castiel, bleeding and hurt, small and humiliated, had remained in the front seat. Dean had come back, tapped on the glass, and motioned towards a room. Out of excuses and fight, Castiel followed. 

"I need to run and get a few things from the store," Dean said, his eyes darting around everywhere but at Castiel. "Take a shower and I'll be back in five." 

Too exhausted to argue, Castiel had just nodded. He'd heard the door close as he stepped into the bathroom. Uncharitably, he'd wondered if Dean was actually coming back at all, or if, having seen Castiel at his lowest point, he would just leave. Castiel wouldn't have blamed him. 

He'd undressed one handed, wincing as he movements tugged on the torn skin of his palm. There was no way that he could try and use his hand without jostling his wrist and each movement sent pain rocketing down his arm. By the time he made it into the shower, he was breathing shallowly, black dancing along the edges of his vision. Not even the warmth of the water could chase away the lingering pain, or the memory of Ephraim's words--_I came for you. Your pain called me here_. Castiel stood in the shower, blood oozing out of his hand. The water had turned pink as it puddled around his ankles, before finally swirling down the drain. 

It had been too much to try and dress again, so Castiel had just wrapped a towel around his waist. His hand left red smears on the white fabric as he tugged at it. Steam billowed out of the bathroom as he opened the door. It had obstructed his view of Dean, just for a moment. Dean, who looked as surprised to see him as Castiel was to find him still here. 

"Hey," Dean finally said, licking his lips as his eyes darted around the room. He seemed unable to focus on anything. They landed on Castiel before drifting away. "Sit down," he finally said, gesturing towards the end of the bed. It was then that Castiel saw what Dean had--several plastic bags, filled with gauze, peroxide, and bandages. A splint poked out of another bag, along with a bottle of what Castiel recognized as Dean's favorite liquor. 

Carefully, Castiel sat down on the bed. He looked down at the carpet as Dean bustled around him, laying out supplies. This was where Dean excelled, and where Castiel faltered. The messy business of being human, the visceral consequences of action. "Here," Dean said, nudging Castiel's bare knee with the bottle. "You're going to want this." 

"Can you..." Castiel's cheeks flushed as he glanced up at Dean. He held his hand up, hoping that would be explanation enough. "I can't..." 

"Shit. Right." With an easy motion, Dean broke the seal on the bottle before handing it to Castiel. Castiel took a sip straight from the bottle, wincing at the burn crawling down his throat. Liquor made him loose and boneless in a way that he'd never been before. 

"Ok." All business, Dean dragged a chair over and leaned low over Castiel's hand. "Give me your wrist." 

Castiel never thought twice before extending his arm. Dean would take care of him. He never doubted that, the same as he never doubted the glory behind a sunrise. 

His trust was never misplaced. Carefully, Dean took Castiel's wrist in his hands. With gentle fingers, he manipulated and stroked. He squeezed and Castiel hissed in an involuntary expression of pain. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Dean murmured. His head bent down low over Castiel's wrist, close enough that Castiel felt the warm puff of his breath. "It's not broken, just sprained, but you'll still want a splint." 

Castiel nodded, acknowledgment and permission. "This is going to hurt," Dean warned. Concern creased at his forehead. 

"It's fine," Castiel said. "I trust you." 

A small, wounded animal noise began and died in the back of Dean's throat. He bent back over Castiel's wrist, taking the brace in one hand and easing Castiel's wrist into its confines. Castiel couldn't help the thin whine at the back of his throat as his tender flesh was manipulated beyond endurance. Dean tightened the brace and Castiel panted out shallow breaths until he thought he might pass out. 

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, fastening the velcro of the brace. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He repeated it until the words ran together, until Castiel wondered if maybe Dean weren't apologizing for something else altogether. 

After an eternity, Dean finished with his wrist. "Take another drink," Dean ordered, nudging the bottle back to Castiel. "Your hand is going to need some stitches and those are going to hurt like a bitch." 

He hadn't lied. Castiel took several large swallows as Dean pushed the needle through the fragile skin of his palm, knitting the flesh back together. All throughout, Dean murmured soft words that blended together in a comforting susurrus of noise. He petted the soft skin of Castiel's unhurt wrist, rubbed over the knob of his knee, squeezed the muscle of his thigh. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

"It's fine," Castiel said, over and over again. "It's fine Dean, it's fine. I'm fine. It's fine." 

Dean finished the last stitch and tied the thread. It was only then that Castiel saw that his hands were shaking. Dean clasped his hands in his lap, dug his fingers into his thighs. "I'm sorry," he muttered again, his gaze focused on the ugly carpet. 

"It's fine," Castiel said, even though it wasn't. It wasn't fine that he was sleeping in the back room of a gas station. It wasn't fine that he was left to fend for himself. It wasn't fine that he was human, that he was hurt, that he was fourteen hours away from Dean at a time when he could have used him the most. 

"Fuck, no it's not." Dean looked up at him, something bleak and hopeless in his eyes. "It's not fine Cas, it's--" His throat worked convulsively. There was desperation in his eyes, something ragged in his breath. He looked like he was on the precipice, like he'd made the decision to take the plunge and damn the consequences. 

"Dean." 

Castiel was on a precipice as well, though perhaps a different one. Goosebumps chased themselves over his bare shoulders while his bare toes gripped the carpet. The alcohol settles in his blood, heavy and dangerous. He'd wanted...He'd wanted for a while, maybe since he'd sliced into his skin the first time for Dean. Maybe since before that. 

He pressed his thumb against the swell of Dean's lower lip. 

"Cas," Dean mumbled. Castiel's knuckles bumped against the movement of his throat. "Cas, we...we--" Dean's terrified eyes stared at him. 

Castiel was terrified, but human enough not to care. "Please," he murmured, leaning close. "Dean, please." 

With a soft, desperate noise, Dean pushed forward. 

Their first kiss was a sloppy meeting of tongue and teeth, Dean too desperate and Castiel too drunk to make it really good. But then they softened and their lips caught. Castiel gasped into Dean's mouth as Dean traced the outline of his lips with the tip of his tongue. One of Dean's hands traveled up his spine, to cup the back of his head. Dean nosed at the corner of Castiel's jaw until Castiel tilted his head back, baring his throat. 

"Fuck Cas," Dean panted, hot and desperate into the hollow of Castiel's throat. "God. Please." 

"Yes," Castiel said, unaware what he was agreeing to, as long as it meant that he could have Dean's hands, Dean's mouth. "Please." 

"God, Cas. Jesus." Dean laid a series of kisses along Castiel's chest before returning to lick into his mouth, hot and dirty. His tongue pressed against the roof of Castiel's mouth, curled teasingly around Castiel's tongue. 

Castiel shivered as Dean's hands traveled down his sides, to pluck at the knot of his towel. "Can I?" 

"Please. Please, Dean." 

Dean had laid him out over the bedspread, had looked at him like Castiel was the answer to every wish he'd ever had. Castiel had squirmed underneath his look, had arched his back and moaned as Dean mapped out his body with teeth, tongue, and hands. Dean had bitten at the spurs of his hips, licked at the crease of his thigh and groin, sucked bruises into his inner thigh. By the time that Dean had finally taken him into his mouth, Castiel was limp and boneless, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes. 

Dean had guided Castiel's hands to the back of his head and Castiel had held on for dear life. He was shattering, coming apart at the edges. Only Dean could put him back together. He'd tried to tell Dean how good it was, how much he _felt_, but all that came out of his mouth was a high cry, and pleas for _more, more, more please Dean_. 

A single dry finger brushed between his cheeks, over his rim, just the barest hint of pressure, and Castiel was coming, back arched up from the bed, heels digging into the mattress. His fingers twisted in Dean's hair as he sobbed his release into the ceiling. Dean kept him in his mouth until Castiel was twitching and oversensitive. 

"Come here," Castiel whispered, eyes still sightless. "Please, come here." 

Dean's heat covered him, shirt and jeans brushing against Castiel's hot skin. When Dean kissed him, Castiel could still taste his release on his lips, salty and bitter. He moaned, hands desperate for touch, for anything. "Fuck Cas," Dean snarled, his kisses bruising. Propped up on his elbow overtop him, Dean kissed Castiel's mouth, his cheek, his jaw. 

Distantly, Castiel heard the filthy, slick sounds of flesh on flesh. A shudder chased through his body--Dean was touching himself overtop him, Dean was pushing himself closer to that edge. "So gorgeous," Castiel said, soft and pleased as he thumbed at the corner of Dean's mouth. "Come for me Dean, I want to see it." 

With a low, strangled cry, Dean did. 

After, Dean wiped him clean with a warm cloth. Castiel lay, languid and bare, on the mattress, watching Dean with bleary eyes. Now that they were done, Dean was awkward in a way that Castiel had never seen before. His movements were stilted and his eyes once again refused to meet Castiel's for longer than a second at a time. "Stay," Castiel offered, holding his hand out towards Dean. "Please," he added, when Dean faltered. 

With slow movements, Dean folded himself next to Castiel, until his head was tucked underneath Castiel's chin. Castiel traced his fingers over the back of Dean's neck, chasing the shivers away. Dean breathed, hot and steady, into Castiel's skin, his hands clutching at the wings of Castiel's shoulders. 

"I could come with you," Castiel finally said, slow and lazy, into Dean's hair. "I could...back to the bunker. I could come with you."

Dean stiffened, and it was then that Castiel knew--this had only been just this once. Slowly, bit by bit, Dean pulled away, until he was sitting on the opposite side of the bed, with his back to Castiel. "The room's paid for until the end of the week," he said, in the quiet, pre-dawn light. "I...You don't have to worry about that at least." 

Castiel's silence made Dean turn to face him. "I can't...you gotta trust me man, it's for...I can't tell you. I can't tell you yet, but when I can, I will, I promise, you just have to trust me, this isn't what I want--"

"My shift starts in forty-five minutes," Castiel interrupted. He pushed up off the bed, stiff and cold. "I'd like another shower before that." 

Dean deflated. Something shuttered behind his eyes. A door closed, and for the life of him, Castiel didn't know which of them had slammed it shut. 

"Right," he said, formal and guarded. "I'll let you do that then." 

And then he'd left. 

Castiel was right--it was just the once, that perfect night, held like a gossamer bubble in the palm of his hand. They never spoke about it, even though it lay heavy over every conversation. There had been a time, just after they'd gotten Jack and Mary back from the alternate world, when Cas had thought that might change. There had been one, blessed week, when everything was still, and there was no impending apocalypse, no hanging dread over their heads. Dean's glances had lasted longer, had been more heated. Castiel had tasted the potential between them, had thrilled...Perhaps this was it. Perhaps, after years, he could finally have what he'd wanted all this time. 

Then there was Lucifer, and then Michael, and then...

Cas presses his face into the bedspread as he fucks up into his fist. When he comes, the emptiness spreads through him until that's all that's left of him. 

\---

So it goes. 

\---

Four months after he left the bunker, and Castiel has built a life. He has a library card which he uses religiously. He plays with Nora's daughter and lets her soothing babble sooth away the aches of Jack. He listens to Nora's problems and concerns, and offers advice. Whenever he can, he uses his swiftly depleting grace to ease Nora's aches and pains. He drinks coffee in the morning and tea in the evening. He practices cooking. He eats and he sleeps, and he pretends like he's not hollow on the inside. For the most part, he's successful. 

Nora will look at him sometimes, shrewdly, like she's reading the whole of his story just from the way that he stacks cans. Castiel smiles and deflects, and Nora either believes him or doesn't want to hurt him and leaves it alone. Castiel goes on and ignores the constant ache in the pit of his belly. 

A woman stops in one day, short blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She smiles often at Castiel and when he gives her change, her fingers stroke over the inside of his wrist. "Do they keep you here all day?" she asks, her light voice tripping like a summer rain-shower. 

"Not usually," Castiel answers. He looks at Nora for help, but she's busily pretending to clean the slushy machine. 

The woman laughs, despite the fact that he hasn't said anything particularly amusing. "That's good to hear. Tell you what." She snatches a pen from his vest pocket and turns her receipt over. "Give me a call once you're out of here and we can go get coffee. Or a real drink. Whatever." She smiles again, waves, and leaves. 

Nora walks over to his side, craning her head to stare at the line of neat numbers written on the thin paper. "She was cute. You should call her." 

Something ugly and painful swoops in Castiel's stomach. Dean's hands, large and calloused, sweeping over his sides, Dean's mouth, hot and hungry against his, the thud of Dean's heart against the soft skin of Castiel's palm. Dean, in the war room--_Why does it seem like that thing's always you?_ Castiel walking away and Dean standing there, watching him leave. 

"I...I can't." He folds the receipt neatly and puts it in his jeans pocket. 

Nora's eyebrow dances upwards. A series of expressions chase themselves across her face. "Is it that guy?" she asks in a rush. "The one who came here that one time?"

Castiel swallows around the lump of pain in his throat. "It's just, you were different after he came. You weren't happy before, but after he stopped by you were...It was like you realized that you had somewhere else to be. After he came by I knew that you weren't going to stay for long." 

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispers. 

"Oh honey." Nora envelops him in an embrace and Castiel collapses into her warmth. It's a relief, to rest his forehead on her slender shoulder, to allow her to bear his weight. "What are you sorry for?" 

"I...That guy. Dean." The name tastes foreign on his tongue. With a start, Castiel realizes that's the first time he's said Dean's name in months. "I. I didn't tell him something important and...a lot of people were hurt as a result. And he blamed me." The hurt pours out of him, pus from a wound. "I thought...I thought that I was going to stay with him for..." It had been forever. Castiel hadn't realized how long a game he was playing until it was over. "And then I realized that he was never going to feel the same about me as I did about him. So I left." 

Nora's hands rub over his shoulders and neck. She cards her fingers through his hair and Castiel slumps into her. "It's ok sweetheart," she whispers. "It's ok. You're ok." 

More than anything, Castiel wants to believe her.

\---

Five months and Castiel laughs more than he used to. He knows most of the locals by name and they call him Steve. It's only Nora who knows his real name. "I'd go by Steve if I had a mouthful like that," was all that she said, rolling her eyes before she refilled the receipt paper. Castiel has enough saved up for an apartment, but he lingers at the hotel. Whether it's from inertia or some misplaced sense of nostalgia, he's not certain. 

Winter comes to Idaho, bitingly cold. Castiel sells rock salt by the pound and swallows the memories. 

On a frigid day in January, with a dreary grey sky that promises snow later, Castiel steps outside. He has to salt the parking lot, otherwise the ice will set in first and even plowing won't help. He holds the bag of salt in his hands as he sprinkles it over the asphalt. The salt has to be spread evenly and while it's not a difficult job, it is one which requires some amount of concentration. The wind snaps at the tips of his ears and his nose and slices through his coat. He can't wait until he's inside and he can wrap his fingers around a steaming cup of coffee. Tonight, he'll warm up a can of soup and hope that the power at the hotel doesn't go out like it did the last time they had a storm. 

A warning prickles at the back of his neck. Castiel freezes and straightens slowly. Sluggish in the cold, his grace still responds to the presence of something otherworldly. His angel blade presses against his hip, a cold, brutal deterrent. 

In all the time he's been here, he's only had a single vampire pass through. Thankfully, it was late at night, when Castiel was alone. He'd raised his hand, grace sparking at the tips of his fingers, before he remembered exactly how Jack's face had burned away underneath his palm. Bile rose at his throat and he'd ended up beheading the vampire with a snow shovel. He'd had to lie to Nora and tell her that the shovel had been damaged in shipping. 

Castiel's grace doesn't recognize the threat. It's not surprising--He doesn't have much left and what little he does have, he saves mostly for healing and emergencies. "You know what I am," he says, low and deadly. "Flee before I lay you to waste." 

"Cas." 

At the sound of the voice, Castiel whirls, blade in hand. It's impossible. It couldn't be, it _couldn't_ be...

Dean Winchester stands in front of him. The bright flame of his soul is muted, but it's real, it's _him_. 

"Hey Cas." A faint smile spreads across Dean's face. It just makes him look sad. "Turns out you're a tough guy to find." 

Castiel's heart pounds in his chest. He'd thought...He'd been sure that he would never see Dean again, but here he is, and Castiel's heart is a traitor. 

Dean looks older than when he left, the lines at the corners of his eyes carved deeper. Dark circles linger under Dean's eyes and he has a day's growth of stubble on his cheeks. He's not dressed for the weather and small shivers wrack through his body. 

He's here, in front of Castiel, and Castiel can only say, "Obviously not hard enough." 

He doesn't mean the words to cut, but they do. He sees Dean's flinch and while part of him wants to reach out and soothe the hurt away, the other, vindictive part of him, wants to cut deeper. Have Dean see how it feels. In the end, he does nothing, just stands the opposite end of the parking lot and watches Dean watching him. 

"I thought...You left your truck on the side of the road. Sam managed to get the GPS off of your phone but you must have ditched it or something." 

"I broke it," Castiel says faintly. He still remembers the snap of the plastic in his hands, how it hadn't been enough. How he'd still wanted to break something else--the bench, the world. 

"That would explain why we couldn't track it." 

Dean offers up a small smile, like a gift, but Castiel doesn't take it. He doesn't want it. He wants so much that he can't parse out what he wants. 

"Why are you here?" he finally asks. 

Dean deflates. His shoulders curl in as he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. "I just...can we talk? Please?" 

"I have to work. My shift doesn't end for another three hours." 

Castiel heads back towards the store. The bell rings as he enters. A moment later, it rings again. Dean stamps his feet, creating a mess that Castiel will have to clean up later, as he breathes hot over his knuckles. "That's another thing. The hell are you doing here again? I could understand the first time, but now...You have your grace. Shouldn't you be on a beach somewhere?" 

"I understand this work," Castiel says shortly, shoving his hands in front of the small space heater they keep at the counter. His fingers tingle as feeling comes back to them. "I'm valued here." 

That blow lands squarely where he meant it to. Dean pulls back and looks at him with large, wounded eyes. "Cas," he says, softer than before. "Cas, please." 

Castiel chokes on his rage, his longing, his grief. After all this time, and now Dean wants to talk. 

"You think that you can come here and upend my life? I beg you for weeks to talk to me and you won't until it's on your terms. It's always what _you_ want." 

The Dean of before would snap and snarl. He would dig his claws into Castiel and not stop until he'd found a vulnerable place that drew blood. The Castiel of before would take it, would stand bleeding because that's what angels did. They withstood punishment with the patience of centuries. But Castiel isn't all the way an angel, at least not in the ways that count. And Dean...Dean stands in front of him, unflinching, unwavering. 

"Please," is all he says. 

And Castiel...Castiel would hold a candle in the palm of his hand until it burned him, just so he wouldn't have to let go. 

"My shift doesn't end for three hours." 

"That's fine." 

"I still have to work. I can't entertain you." 

"That's fine." 

"You'll have to sit on the stool over there and stay out of my way."

"I can do that." 

Castiel runs out of orders to give. He stares instead at Dean, something squirming in the vast emptiness of his chest. For the first time in months, he feels something other than hollow. Dean smiles at him, a hint of the old arrogance, before he arranges himself on the uncomfortable stool. 

An hour later, the promised snow starts to fall. Dean moves from the stool to the window, looking up at the sky with no small amount of fascination. "It's really coming down," he announces. Something childish dances in his eyes. 

"It's Idaho," Castiel says dryly. "It does that." 

"Yeah, but I mean, the parking lot's already covered." 

Castiel hums, but even he has to admit--the snow is accumulating quicker than expected. After thirty minutes, the texture of the lot is lost. No headlights show on the road outside. Castiel's phone rings in his pocket and he answers. 

"You're not still at work are you?" Nora asks. 

Despite himself, Castiel smiles at the chiding tone of her voice. Who would have thought that a former garrison leader would submit and even enjoy a gentle scolding from a human woman? "I might be," he answers. 

"Well get the hell out of there!" Nora says, laughter in her voice. "Seriously, close up. I'll call you tomorrow with the plan. If this thing is as bad as everyone says it will be, we probably won't open." 

"All right. Take care." 

He hangs up, but not before glancing at Dean. Something complicated rests on Dean's face--something soft and hard, warm and cold all at the same time. He shifts his expression once he sees Cas looking at him, but the memory lingers. 

"I have to shut down the store," Castiel announces. 

To his surprise, Dean asks, "What can I do?"

Stammering, Castiel points towards the cleaning supplies. He tells Dean to clean the floor and Dean sets to his task without a word of complaint. Castiel counts the day's admittedly small take and places the money in the safe. He checks the fridges and freezers, before turns back to Dean. 

He's not used to seeing Dean this unguarded, this soft. Even at his best times, there was always something prickly about Dean, like he was wearing a jacket that was just a little too big for him. He always looked like he was expecting a blow. But now...Dean is open in a way that Castiel's never seen before. A warm glow sparks in Castiel's chest, illuminating places long gone cold and dark. 

"Ride with me," Castiel says as he heads towards his truck. 

He was expecting Dean's hesitation as he glances towards the Impala. "I can't leave her," Dean tries. 

"Do you have snow tires?" Dean shakes his head. "Do you have chains?" Dean's lips press thinly together. "Then you're riding with me. She'll be fine." 

Dean eventually follows him, though not without a fair amount of grumbling. Castiel settles in the driver's seat and starts the car. All the while, he feels Dean's eyes on him. It's not an unpleasant sensation, but it does send little squirms of delight shivering through his belly. In the end, Castiel is still so weak for this man. 

Castiel crawls down the roads, wipers working overtime and hazard lights flashing. His breath puffs out in front of him in cold little bursts. It takes the heater a while to start working, but as he drives, he feels a light pressure against the side of his leg. The back of Dean's hand presses against Castiel's thigh, knuckles pushing into the fabric of his jeans. Castiel's breath catches in his throat, but he doesn't tell Dean to move his hand, and Dean never falters through the long ride back to the motel. 

\---

The motel room is cold when they enter. Dean is shivering so much that his teeth are clacking together, even when he tries to clench his jaw to stop the sound. 

"You need a shower," Castiel decides. Sometimes it's the only thing that gets the chill out of his bones. 

Dean, however, looks at him with wide, rolling eyes, almost like a spooked horse. "I'm fine," he says tightly, despite the fact that his shivers have now become visible things. 

"Take a shower," Castiel says, putting a hint of the old force into his voice. He rifles through his drawers and finds his largest pair of sweatpants and largest sweatshirt. "You can change into this after you're done." 

Dean takes the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. Mere moments later, Castiel hears the shower sputter to life. He listens and tortures himself with imagining what's happening in the shower, before he has to cut short that line of inquiry. Instead, he starts a can of soup on the stove. After thinking on it, he makes two. 

He's still not sure what exactly Dean wants. He's still not sure how he feels about Dean showing up without warning. 

But he does know that for the first time in six months, his heart beats easy, without a hint of pain. 

\---

Dean comes out of the shower, flushed pink and in Castiel's clothes. Dean is just a few inches taller than him, so his sweats leave a thin sliver of ankle exposed. Castiel focuses in on that ankle, on the knobby bones of it and Dean's feet. He can see where Dean's broken several toes and never bothered to set them. Dean smiles, slow and open at him, running his fingers through his short hair. 

"I made soup for dinner," Castiel says. "You're more than welcome to some." 

"Right. Ok." 

Dinner is a quiet affair, interspersed with furtive looks between the two of them. Dean doesn't speak except to ask, "You eat now?"

Castiel shrugs. "I have enough grace for important things--healing. Maybe a smiting. But I don't have enough to maintain the body. It needs sleep and food." 

Dean swallows. "You do," he corrects, but softly. "You need sleep and food." 

"Right. Of course." 

Neither of them speaks until their bowls are clear. Castiel takes them to the sink, intent on washing. He fills the sink and dips his hands into the soapy water, only to have Dean's fingers wrap softly around his wrist. "Cas," he says. "Can we please talk?"

He doesn't want to. He wants to exist in this little bubble, where he can pretend that everything is fine, where he and Dean can just be themselves. But Dean's eyes are plaintive, and soft, and Castiel doesn't have an excuse. 

"What is there to say?"

Dean never lets go of his wrist as he stares at Castiel's face. He runs his thumbs over the bumps of Castiel's wrist in long, sweeping strokes. Castiel's missed those eyes, missed the color, the way that they look like the meadows of heaven. He's missed the faint ring of gold ringing the green. He's missed the brush of freckles across the bridge of Dean's nose. He's missed the scent of Dean, leather and gunsmoke. So much that he's missed--

"I'm sorry," Dean says, tiny and achingly honest. "Cas, I'm so sorry." 

Something in Castiel's chest shatters. It hurts, it cuts him and shreds him, and he wishes that Dean hadn't said it, but he wants to hear it again-- "You have to believe me Cas." 

"Why?" It's the only thing that Castiel can think to ask. 

"I...god Cas, I was so...It was Chuck and Mom and Jack and...I knew that I was fucking up, I knew that you were hurting, but I couldn't...I saw that you were hurting but all I could think of was that I was hurting too and that it had to be someone's fault because otherwise it was _my_ fault. I didn't...I didn't mean to hurt you." 

Castiel puffs out a breath of mirthless laughter. "You didn't mean to? You told me that I was the reason that everything went wrong. You said that I was dead to you, you--"

"I was wrong, all right?" Dean's voice rises. "Jesus Cas, you realize how much I've hated myself for saying that? The second I said it, I wished I could take it back, but I couldn't. And I couldn't apologize because you _left_, and I tried to track you down but I couldn't find you--"

The lights flicker once, then twice. Dean looks up at the ceiling, then back at Castiel. "Is that you?" 

"No," Castiel answers, already headed towards the candles. He reaches them just as the lights flicker off for good. "It's the storm," he says to the darkness, before finding his lighter. The flame snaps into existence, creating a tiny pinprick of light in the otherwise dark room. "Any time we get snow, it's a good bet that we lose power." 

"Jesus," Dean says. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of Castiel's sweatshirt. "How the hell do you live like this?"

"It's not that bad," Castiel says mildly. "At least here when a problem arises, I can solve it." 

"Cas," Dean says, evidently returning to his original point. "Cas, you have to know. I mean...you must know." 

"I asked you for help. I tried to talk to you. I tried to apologize and every time, every _single_ time, you pushed me away. You were the one who said _You're dead to me_. You were the one who said that I was the reason that everything went wrong--"

"And I was wrong!" Dean's voice echoes off the thin drywall. It takes him a moment, but he manages to get himself back under control. "Jesus Cas--I said that and I was wrong. I don't...God, are you really going to make me say it?"

"Say what?" Castiel asks. At this point, he has no idea what Dean could want to say to him. 

"Jesus Christ," Dean curses. "I can't fucking sleep without you, all right? I can't...six months and I haven't slept more than four hours a night because I didn't know where you were. I didn't know if you were alive, dead, or what. I couldn't stop thinking about when you left...I should have run after you. I should have stopped you right there. I should have begged you to stay." The candlelight throws the shadows on Dean's face into sharp relief. "I need you Cas. Always have." 

"And that's the problem," Castiel says. He steps away from Dean, out of arm's reach. "If I'm not useful, then you don't need me. If I can't help you--"

"Shut up." Dean's voice is low, dangerous. In the darkness, Castiel hardly sees him move until Dean's right in front of him. Dean reaches out and takes Castiel's face between his hands, holding his cheeks with a dangerous sort of gentle brutality. Dean presses his forehead against Castiel's. Castiel hardly dares to breathe. 

"Listen here, you stupid bastard." Dean's voice is rough with tenderness. "I don't...It's never been about that for me. And I'm sorry if I made you think that, but listen now. I need you because you're you, you grumpy little son of a bitch. Because you drink too much coffee and you like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and you only drink one brand of beer. Because you like guinea pigs and you have this weird thing with bees. Because you're stubborn and smart and--"

Castiel can't take it anymore. He lurches forward and smashes his lips against Dean. His teeth score the inside of his lip and he tastes blood but he can't worry about that now, not when Dean's mouth opens eagerly to his. Dean moans into his mouth, fingers carding through Castiel's hair to curve around the base of his skull. 

"I'm so angry at you," Castiel pants against Dean's mouth. "I'm so...you don't know, how much it hurt, how much I--"

"I'm sorry," Dean whimpers, nipping at his lower lip. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Cas, please, please, don't leave, I can't, I can't without you--" 

"An eternity and no one has ever hurt me like you did." Dean whines low in his throat, dropping his forehead to Castiel's shoulder. "No one's ever come close. But you..."

"I need you," Dean says, his voice muffled by Castiel's shirt. "Don't ever...don't ever think that I would be fine if you left, because I'm not Cas, I'm not ok, I need you with me, I just, I need _you_..." 

The candle flickers as they stumble their way to the bed. The cold air bites at their exposed skin as they shed their shirts and then their sweats. Trembling, they crawl under the blankets and make a nest, just for the two of them. "Missed you," Dean whispers, kissing along the line of Castiel's jaw. "I missed you so goddamn much, you don't even know--every fucking day, I woke up looking for you, every fucking day knowing that it was my fault that you were gone. Every goddamn day." 

"You let me go. You watched me walk out that door and you didn't even try to stop me..." Dean sucks a livid bruise against the crook of Castiel's shoulder and he cries out, digging his nails into Dean's shoulders. ,

"You just walked away." Dean nuzzles at the swiftly darkening mark. "You didn't even, oh _fuck_ Cas, right there--"

"Never again," Castiel says as he strokes over Dean's hip, down to close his hand around both of them. "Do you hear me Dean Winchester? Never again will you push me away, will you punish me for what I haven't done." Dean's hips roll helplessly into Castiel's fist as a series of soft whimpers fall from his lips. "Never again will you treat me like I am lesser than you." 

"I promise, I promise." Dean almost sobs out the words. His hands clench at Castiel's shoulders as his mouth blindly seeks his. "Oh god Cas, I'm gonna, I'm gonna--"

"Spill," Castiel says, before sinking his teeth into the cord of Dean's neck. 

Dean wails as he obeys, spurting hot over Castiel's fist, shuddering and shaking. His breath comes out in uneven hitches and all throughout, he holds onto Castiel like if he doesn't, then Castiel might just disappear. 

It only takes Castiel a few more slick strokes and he's spilling as well, his release mingling with Dean's atop their stomachs. Dean moans to feel it and pulls Castiel closer, heedless of the mess on their stomachs. He presses kisses to Castiel's lips, temple, and forehead, as he hitches one leg over Castiel's thigh to settle at the back of his knees. 

"Don't leave," Dean murmurs. "Please Cas. Please don't leave me." 

\---

When they wake in the morning, tangled together, Castiel expects awkwardness. What he doesn't expect is Dean's soft, sleep=hazy smile. He doesn't expect the fingers stroking down his cheek and he doesn't expect the gentle kiss placed at the corner of his mouth. "Hey," Dean whispers, hope and something else, something as boundless as the sea, as unchanging as the moon, as relentless as the tides, shining at the back of his eyes. On anyone else, Castiel would call it love. 

Perhaps he'll call it the same on Dean. 

Hurt still bubbles and boils in his stomach. He's not ready to drop everything and follow Dean. He's not ready to leave behind the life that he's built here. He's not ready to attach those weights to his ankles once more, to tether himself to something which in the end, is going to cut him to ribbons, every time. There is so much that is wrong between him and Dean, Castiel doesn't know if it can ever be truly fixed. 

But he wants to try. 

He leans forward and kisses Dean, soft as a whisper, as definitive as a promise. It feels like tomorrows and maybes and somedays, rolled into one. It's Dean looking for him for six months. It's Castiel pulling Dean out of hell. It's Dean fighting through Purgatory to find Castiel. It's Castiel defying the hordes of Heaven and Hell to stay at Dean Winchester's side.

It tastes like hope; it feels like home. 

Castiel runs the back of his knuckles over Dean's cheek. It's a new day. 

"Hello Dean," he says. 

\---

_I think perhaps I will always hold a candle for you--Even until it burns my hand. And when the light has long since gone...I will be there in the darkness, holding what remains, quite simply because I cannot let go.--Ranata Suzuki_

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumbler [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dothwrites). You can yell at me about many things and I might yell back.


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